Punchline
by Poke-it-with-a-Stick
Summary: X-men: First Class 'verse. Two mutants walk into a bar...


**X-men: First Class has eaten my brain. I keep trying to write happy Charles and Erik fluff, and coming out with angsty foreshadowing. Anyway, this is set during that mutant-recruiting road trip, with the assumption that they went over to England at some point. (Charles probably dragged Erik off to see his old university, with some paper-thin excuse about there being a high concentration of mutants in major university towns.) **

It's a cool weekday night in Cambridge and the bar is half empty when Charles Xavier and Erik Lensherr walk in.

"So who are we looking for here?" asks Erik, heading automatically for a table in the darkest corner.

"A girl named Helen Sawyer," replies Charles, running a finger down the list of names Cerebro has provided them with. A small smile quirks the corner of his mouth. "A telepath, like me. Not here yet, or I'd sense her, but our intelligence says she comes here every night. All we have to do is wait."

"Why is it," says Erik as he shucks off his jacket, "that so many of the mutants we're looking for hang out in bars, or clubs, or strip joints? Are you just crossing off the schoolkids and shopkeepers before we get to them?"

"Certainly not," says Charles indignantly, and then, because he's Charles Xavier and while he has many talents, dishonesty is not one of them, "However, I may have delegated some of them to Raven."

Erik rolls his eyes, not without a certain measure of affection. That's Charles Xavier all over: a spoilt, arrogant, over-privileged brat with an ego the size of Jupiter who believes he's entitled to whatever he wants, and tempers his infuriating self-assurance with enough charm, wit and genuine kindness to ensure that he gets it. Erik sometimes wonders at it, the way Charles can keep him laughing by his side when he should really be punching him in the face. If it hadn't been for Charles' promise never to enter Erik's mind without permission, he would almost put it down to mental manipulation. As it is, he forces himself not to examine the feeling. Erik knows and cares nothing for quantum theory, but the fear of a situation collapsing due to too close observation is a familiar one.

"What are you drinking tonight, Charles?"

"Oh, brandy, I suppose. You know, one of these days we should really try recruiting mutants sober."

"It would be a terrible shame to spoil a winning formula," replies Erik, grinning, and heads for the bar.

Charles is several drinks the wrong side of tipsy when their quarry finally enters. The first Erik, still relatively clear-headed due to greater height and greater stubbornness, knows of it is when Charles clutches at his arm with one hand, pointing shakily with the other.

"There! Her."

The girl who's just walked in isn't particularly arresting: reasonably pretty, with long black hair, big brown eyes and a smattering of freckles across her nose that Charles will no doubt be complimenting within seconds of making her acquaintance. Erik just hopes that his genetics patter doesn't work too well; their hotel room is far too small to bring a girl back to, and Erik has no desire to sleep in the corridor tonight.

"Do you think she's aware of her powers?" he asks. Some of the mutants they've run across so far haven't been, and have taken terrified exception to a pair of strangers turning up on their doorsteps and demanding to see them shoot icicles from their eyes or something similar. It's not as though Erik minds the confrontation, but Charles has some rather strait-laced ideas about freedom of choice and broken ribs not being the best way to persuade people of your cause, and he can get quite uptight if Erik doesn't play by his rules.

"Oh, she's certainly aware," says Charles. "Unavoidable, with a telepath. Stay in control or die. No blissful ignorance for us, my friend." He seems about to say something more, but then his gaze drifts back to the girl, now seated at the bar, and he clutches Erik's arm so tightly he cuts off the circulation.

"Look!"

Erik looks obediently. "What?"

"Just look at her!"

"Charles, if this is some special telepath thing, not all of us are capable of seeing it. Try to remember that some of us have rather different powers, hm?" He crooks a finger, bending the window latch inwards in illustration. Sometimes Charles gets so caught up in what's going on inside his own head that he forgets not everyone else can keep up with him. Evidently that's the case this time, because he flusters briefly, the pink of alcohol in his cheeks joined by the pink of a blush. Then he raises two fingers to his temple, and suddenly Erik is seeing through his eyes.

The girl at the bar is green. It's not particularly startling to someone who knows Raven, but still unexpected enough to make him jump. After a second, Charles lowers his hand and everything is normal again.

"So she's a shapeshifter too?" says Erik. Useful. Very useful.

"No..." says Charles distractedly. "No, she's just psychic. Psychic... and green. She's projecting a normal human form to everyone here; even had me fooled for a moment. She must be terribly powerful..." He trails off with an expression that's either thoughtful or tipsy; Erik can't quite tell. Then he grins.

"This one shouldn't be too hard to convince. I doubt her life has been a bed of roses up till now." He drains his glass. "Coming?"

"Chatting up a pretty girl in a university bar? More your area than mine, my friend."

"Erik, you forget that this is Cambridge. I went to Oxford. I'm going to be flirting with the enemy!"

Erik rolls his eyes and jerks his head at Helen Sawyer. "Get on with it, then." Charles grins, winks and saunters over to the bar, sliding onto a stool and into easy conversation with the girl. Erik checks their notes. She's twenty-five and in the first year of a Master's in molecular biology, which will probably make her more than usually susceptible to the dorky genetics routine that Charles is currently pulling on her. (If Erik and Raven have explained to him once that science isn't sexy, they've explained it a thousand times, but it never seems to get through. Of course, they'd probably have more success if the routine didn't work so consistently. Raven is beginning to refer to the house, only half-jokingly, as Charles' harem.)

Erik lights up and watches thoughtfully as Charles dazzles Helen with his charm, buying her a drink – "Whisky sour, I think." "How did you know that?" "Lucky guess." – and complimenting her freckles – "It's a mutation, actually. A very groovy mutation." – whilst keeping up an effortless flow of chatter and smiles. Her slight flinch at the word 'mutation' does not escape him, nor does it Erik, who stubs out his cigarette and coughs mentally in Charles' direction, hoping that Helen won't pick up on it.

_My friend, you do remember that you're supposed to be recruiting her into a group to prevent nuclear armageddon, not into your bed?_

_Little chance of that, the motel we're staying in. Bed's barely big enough for one. Yes, alright_ – this in response to a near-imperceptible creaking of barstool metal – _I'll move things along. _

Erik looks on, absently loosening and tightening the screws holding the table together. Charles' expression grows more serious. He leans into Helen, whose brows furrow as he begins to talk more quickly and quietly. Erik can only catch snippets from here – "serious threat", "absolutely essential", "impossible without" – but it's clear he's flattering her into agreeing, playing to her sense of self-worth. Same old Charles. Same old preternatural charm, so effective it's hard to believe it's not another mutation. Well, Charles has his talents, and Erik has his own, chief among which is a highly-developed sense for trouble. And the man who has just entered the bar – brown-haired, dressed in slacks and shirt, utterly inoffensive-looking – brings the scent of trouble wafting in with him like the cool night air. He moves towards Helen, who's saying, "I'm sorry, Professor, but I—" before Charles cuts her off with some sort of compliment. Erik mimics the motion, heading for Charles. This may not be the wisest of plans, as there's something about Erik's glowering intensity that seems to make him a walking magnet for bar fights, but if there's going to be trouble, he'd rather be close to Charles. He needs to be able to protect him if, as is so often the case, he's too dim-witted to protect himself.

The man hasn't quite reached Helen when, without turning round, she says, "Jim, darling, this is Professor Charles Xavier. Charles, this is my fiancé, Jim Harwood."

_Fiancé?_ thinks Erik. Charles doesn't even miss a beat, standing to shake his hand.

"Pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr Harwood."

"Likewise, Professor."

"Oh, please, call me Charles. And this is my friend, Erik Lensherr." He gestures to Erik, also without bothering to look round. Jim leans over to shake hands with Erik too, which apparently puts the whole evening on a thoroughly equable and utterly British footing in which no-one can say what they're actually thinking. Helen can't continue with what sounded very much like a rejection of Charles' offer. Jim can't accuse Charles of chatting up his fiancée. And Charles can't ask why Helen took the risk of using her powers so obviously in front of the man she's engaged to. Hence, it falls to Erik, neither particularly equable nor particularly British, to move things along.

"Charles, would you mind explaining what the hell's going on?"

"I could ask the same myself," says Jim. "Were these people bothering you, darling?"

"Not at all," replies Helen, giving his hand a fond squeeze. "Charles, I'm sorry, but I'm sure you understand that I have no wish to join you, no matter how worthy the cause. I have a life here."

"I don't think you appreciate what we're offering you," says Charles. "If you came with us, you wouldn't have to hide any longer—"

"Hide?" says Helen, and suddenly she's green again, a network of veins outlining her bald scalp, her eyes flashing purple. Erik glances around, but no-one else seems to have noticed. The barman merely raises an eyebrow at another impending quarrel over a girl and goes back to polishing glasses.

_Who says I'm hiding?_ says Helen Sawyer in their minds. Charles' eyes open wider, flickering sideways to Jim and Erik. Erik gives him a little nod. Yes, they can hear it too. Charles shrugs, and plunges on.

_I only meant that here, you'll never be able to show your true form_.

_Perhaps not to everyone_, says Helen, as Erik and Jim's heads snap back and forth, unwilling spectators in a game of psychic ping-pong. _Perhaps not to the people who serve me drinks or chat me up in bars, but to the people who matter..._ She turns to look up at Jim, still holding his hand, and the smile they share is so nauseatingly sweet that Erik gives up on her immediately. There's no way anyone, even Charles, can persuade someone who's that much in love to join them, and even if he did, she'd be worse than useless in the fight against Shaw. Love is a hopeless motivator. Hatred is far more effective.

Erik has apparently underestimated Charles' power of selective obliviousness, however, because he continues to babble about how useful Helen's talents would be on their mission, how valued, how she would have no more need of psychic disguise. _Hypocrite_, thinks Erik, looking at poised, confident Helen Sawyer and thinking of restless, discontented Raven Darkholm.

"Charles," he says aloud. "I think we're done here."

Charles blanks him, moving on to interrogate Jim. "So you know that she's—"

"She's what, Professor? Different? Special? Capable of things I can only dream of? Of course I know. She's my fiancée."

"But she's _gre—_"

"— very pretty," interrupts Erik, treading extremely hard on Charles' foot, "and if you'll excuse me, I think my friend has had rather too much to drink. Please accept our apologies for bothering you. Come on, Charles."

Jim nods, tight-lipped. Helen squeezes his hand again, murmuring something soothing, once more dark-haired and freckled. Erik has barely dragged Charles from his barstool before their attention is occupied entirely with one another.

Erik pretty much hauls Charles bodily from the bar, in an interesting inversion of the usual situation. He ignores Charles' spluttered protestations, his self-justifications, the sulky silence he falls into when it becomes clear that Erik thinks he's in the wrong. Erik doesn't feel up to breaking that silence, so he lets it deepen and thicken between them as he drives them back to their hotel. They don't talk about the blow to Erik's view that mutants and humans can never coexist peaceably. They don't talk about the blow to Charles' view that mutants should hide and control themselves in the presence of humans, or about how he's a worse bigot, in his way, than the humans who would lock them up and experiment on them. That's a conversation for another day.

Two mutants walk into a bar, and the punchline only comes several weeks later, in the form of a bullet to Charles Xavier's spine.


End file.
